


A Scandal in Victoria

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista John, Couch Sex, M/M, Sherlock in Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: John is trying to watch the AFL Grand Final. Sherlock is wearing a pair of purple panties and being distracting. And then, bored, Sherlock starts to take photos and posting them to a brand new instagram account. Just to pass the time, you understand.





	

The Instagram account happened because…

Actually, Sherlock’s not too sure why it happened. He was a bit bored and more than a bit horny. He was trying to get John’s attention, or perhaps trying to ensure he had it into the future. Perhaps it’s because he’s just so preeningly proud that John’s his, and that he is John’s and wanted to plant evidence in the world to that effect.

Or it could be that the way John looks at him – whether Sherlock’s in a fine silk shirt or a pair of fine silk panties or, indeed, a pair of come-damp dishevelled silk panties, or just in his pale, naked skin – the way John licks his lips and his blue eyes grow luminously large (and his prick deliciously thick)... Well. Sometimes Sherlock gets this urge to show the world what John sees, to prove that it happens. To counteract all those times when it seemed nobody thought Sherlock Holmes anything but the gangly, weird geek.

Or it really could be that they are just a pair of exhibitionists who are unspeakably smug about each other.

The more Sherlock thinks about it, the more he thinks that the latter is probably the reason that the @ascandalinvictoria account exists at all.

John’s got his own Instagram account of course. @MisterBarista. Sherlock’s is @improbableB. John posts photos of coffee, food, fashion and street art. Sherlock posts puzzles and macro shots of textures and secret alleys and hidden shops in Melbourne.

*

It begins with a wet September Saturday afternoon and the Australian Football League Grand Final. John is on the sofa in a pair of his ridiculously short football shorts - bright blue, and a sleeveless top, a matching blue with a red and white stripe. He has been unironically cheering on the sporting success of his Aussie Rules team, the Western Bulldogs (John’s childhood pet had been a bulldog named Gladstone; when it came to choosing a team to follow, it seemed a good enough reason).

In a kind of sartorial protest, Sherlock pulls on a pair of purple lacy knickers and spreads himself out on the sofa next to John.

John, intent on the game, pays no attention.

So Sherlock takes a photo of his panty-covered crotch and texts it to John right next to him on the couch. John ignores it – apparently the rival team, the Swans, are making it a close game. Sherlock, who might have quite liked swans but such liking will never induce him to give a damn about the Australian Football League, takes another photo of himself, this one with the panties pulled to one side, showing off a bit of sidecock and bush. He texts it to John. John ignores the pipping of his phone and shouts something joyful at the TV screen.

Sherlock fondles himself for a bit, until the head of his cock peeps up wetly over the lacy band of the knickers. He takes another close-up and texted it to John.

John cheers at another goal on the screen and grins at Sherlock like it’s thrilling for him too. Then John glances down at Sherlock sitting with his legs wide and his panties straining at the barely constrained fullness and with a twinkling eye he promises, “That can be our half time entertainment, if you play your cards right.”

Sherlock has no idea what playing his cards right means in this context, but what the hell. John enjoys the football (which isn’t proper football, which the mad people of this ludicrous country insisted on calling _soccer_ ) and Sherlock calculates if John remains as worked up and aroused by the match at the end as he is right now, and if his team wins (apparently for the first time since the 60s) excellent sex will result.

Sherlock is a smart man, and since meeting John, a very sexual one, and he frankly thinks it might be worth being ignored a bit now in order to have spectacular winning-team-sex later. Or at least sporting-commiserations sex.

Having decided to put it off doesn’t make Sherlock less bored with the game. So he spends twenty minutes idly setting up an Instagram account under a false name and he posts the first close-up picture of his panties online at @ascandalinvictoria. #boyfriendtreat #footballwidower #

Admiring the result, he takes John’s hand (John lets him, mostly ignoring what Sherlock is doing with his hand as he watches the game) and Sherlock snaps a series of pictures of John’s capable fingers: against the purple silk, against Sherlock’s skin, and then in the midst of Sherlock’s dark bush, framed by purple lace. No cock of course, but no prizes for guessing where it is, a swell nestled nearby underneath the silk. #magichands #birdinthehand

Then Sherlock takes photos of his own pale hips contrasting with the colour of the panties. He twists onto his side to take a bum selfie –  capturing just pale skin and purple panties, no identifying features. A few more filters and off these go into @ascandalinvictoria. #hipstersilky

Then Sherlock picks up John’s phone, logs into his Instagram and makes sure John is following @ascandalinvictoria. Back to his own phone, he takes a close-up of his own pinkie finger resting against his own belly button, puts it through a filter and posts it in the new account as #halftimeentertainment #isithalftimeyet?

At half time, John doesn’t even check his phone. He just sprawls over the top of his semi-naked cabinet of delights and kisses him stupid, while Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s hips and frots himself. John wriggles down the couch, kissing a moustachioed line of pleasure down Sherlock’s throat, chest, belly – he stops to tongue-fuck Sherlock’s navel because that always makes Sherlock squirm and thrust – until he is face first between Sherlock’s legs. With a wicked grin, John pulls Sherlock’s panties down just enough to free Sherlock’s cock, and then he begins to feast. Sucking, licking, kissing, sucking again. Moustache tickling Sherlock’s shaft on one side, tongue working his frenulum on the other. John’s hands caressing Sherlock’s balls through the silk, before John insinuates a finger underneath lace encircling Sherlock’s thigh and rubs it softly against Sherlock’s entrance.

Sherlock moans and flexes and thrusts under John’s hands and mouth and fingers until John deep-throats him and Sherlock comes with a shout.

John tucks him back into his panties. He kisses Sherlock’s spent cock through the silk. He says, “If you’re up for a rematch after the game…” and he waggles his eyebrows.

Sherlock lifts a leg and wriggles his bare toes into the gap in the left leg of John’s shorts. “Want to wait that long?”

John stills Sherlock’s wriggling toes against his inner thigh. “Just this once.” Then he adjusts his position until Sherlock’s bare toes are pressed against his erection. “I’m saving this up for later.”

“Win, lose or draw?”

That makes John laugh, but the game starts again and so John turns back to the TV, pulling Sherlock’s feet into his lap to massage him between the toes.

Sherlock hands John his phone. “Take a picture of my feet.”

John waits until the next goal – disappointingly its one for the Swans – and takes a photo of Sherlock’s feet pressed against his crotch. Sherlock takes back the phone, crops the image, posts it to @ascandalinvictoria with #halftimeentertained

For the rest of the game, Sherlock takes, crops, filters and posts pictures of: John’s right ear; his own inner elbow; a dark red lovebite on his collarbone that’s in the shape of a heart; John’s hand resting on Sherlock’s belly, just above the knicker line.

When the final siren goes, John celebrates the fabulous and thrilling victory of the Western Bulldogs by tugging Sherlock down the sofa towards him, turning him onto his belly, rimming Sherlock until he’s a whimpering mess on the cushions, and fucking him in celebratory ‘doggy style’, with Sherlock’s pants caught halfway down his thighs, until they both come. It’s a good thing they habitually leave a throw rug on the couch, because for two men with a perfectly serviceable king sized bed, sofa sex happens a lot.

It’s not till that evening that John discovers he’s following a new Instagram account, and recognises all the body parts.

He raises an eyebrow. He looks at Sherlock, who shrugs.

Then John says, “Turn around. Look over your shoulder. Drop the dressing gown a bit. Like that. Look down. Yeah.”

He takes a photo of Sherlock’s long, slender back and his beautiful round arse, all draped with blue silk dressing gown like he’s a Greek ideal of male beauty. A few filters, a bit of judicious cropping, and there it is. A photo of Sherlock that his own brother wouldn’t’ recognise, in smoky hues and flowing shapes under marblesque folds. He sends the picture to Sherlock with the suggestion #melbourneadonis and #leagueofhisown.

These days, @ascandalinvictoria has 200,000 followers. John has access too, and whenever they are feeling particularly enamoured of one another, there are photos of skin and panties, draped cloth and decorated fingernails: filtered, cropped, coloured, lit, to be incredibly beautiful but completely anonymous. Sometimes the image captures just a little bare crotch; a hint of fuzz, a soupcon of slit, a hint of secret valley of arse crease. They capture little teasing tastes of the beauty they see in each other and declare it on @ascandalinvictoria #mineminemine #hessobeautiful #dontyouwishyouwereme

**Author's Note:**

> So happy to be back with the boys from Captains! Woo!


End file.
